


Hockey

by Jessa



Series: One-shots and Drabbles [5]
Category: Reylo - Fandom, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, reylo au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 23:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16586768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessa/pseuds/Jessa
Summary: Cheesy-sweet AU.I’ve been feeling blue and writing this made me feel better.Hope it has a similar effect on you.:)





	Hockey

The ice is at least an inch thick. Fortunately, the same thing happened yesterday morning and you remember that after you’d poured the water from the outdoor tap all over your front windscreen then, you’d dumped the empty plastic juice container back into the recycling bin. You reach for it again now.

Once you’re finally on the road, it’s not so bad, although you still feel sorry for the kids. What kind of sycophant makes twelve-year-olds play outdoor hockey in frigid temperatures at 8am? You’ll never send your kids to a school like this.

As you indicate to pull away from the curb outside the café, wheel in one hand and latte in the other, you’re aware that your side mirror is still covered in ice. You lower the rear passenger window in order to see what’s coming. It only costs you a moment, but it’s enough to let the tram sneak by.

 _Fuck,_  you think. Thawing the ice has already cost you time, and now so will this.

You crawl your way up the rest of the road to the five-way intersection. Then you gun the engine of your second-hand car, maneuvering at last around the tram and through the amber light.

 _Crisis over,_  you think to yourself, satisfied that you should still make it to the game on time because you’re pretty good at making up time.

Once you’re parked, you pop your boot and then rummage hastily for the warm stuff you keep there for school sport, because it’s always even colder out here in the valley where the games are held than it is in the inner city. You can see your own breath as you wriggle into your over-sized wind-proof jacket, zipping it right up to your chin and then shrugging on your school-issue, sleeveless fleece vest before wrapping your scarf around your neck twice, making sure it covers your mouth.

 _What a fashion statement,_  you think to yourself as you readjust your knee socks. But you’re not exactly there to pick up, so who cares anyway, right? You just want to get this done, and then get back home to your warm bed. Hell, you don’t even get any extra money for doing this. It’s just part of your teaching load.

Slinging the hockey bag and first aid kit over your shoulder, you slam the boot closed, lock your car and then start the walk down the hill. Most of the kids are already there. Parents are strategically positioning themselves in the weak morning sun, trying to get warm. You say hello to the few you recognize on your way down to the small black gate that marks the entrance to Field 1.

Like ducklings, the kids follow you onto the surface. They’re good kids. They are definitely the only reason why you’re here.

“Has anyone seen the coach?” you ask one of them, whose name is Finn.

“I don’t think he’s coming today, Miss,” Finn says. “Rose says he’s sick.”

“How does Rose know that?” you ask curiously, as you walk briskly in the direction of the closest dugout. You can see the opposing team has already claimed the farther one.

“My older sister’s friends with him on Facebook, Miss,” Rose says, overhearing her name and jogging to catch up. “She used to go out with him.”

“Hmm,” you say. “I guess that means we have no goalie kit?”

“Yup,” Finn says. “Again. I  _love_  hockey.”

You give the kid a wry smile.

“Yeah, I know,” you say, totally getting it. This isn’t the first time the coach has ditched on a freezing cold morning. “I don’t like it either, but you know what? We’ve done the hardest part. We’re here!”

You dump the bags on the ground at the mouth of the dugout, unzip one of them and reach inside it for some balls.

“Come on,” you say, trying to sound bright as you roll them onto the synthetic grass. “Have a hit. Keep yourselves warm while we wait for game time.”

The kids head out onto the field, tapping the balls around. They seem happy enough so you do a quick scan, supposing that you should at least act like the Teacher-In-Charge you’re meant to be, even though all you feel like doing is getting back in your car and going straight home. You hate hockey. You don’t know the rules. You don’t want to know the rules. You wish you didn’t have to do this at all.

You look to the umpires, who look about as enthused as you, but at least they’re getting paid in cash at the end of this. Unlike you. Monthly salaries can really suck, especially when you’re only one-week in since your last pay and already over budget and hanging for the next one.

“Good morning.”

The sound of the deep male voice startles you briefly. Trying to compartmentalize your lack of enthusiasm for this aspect of your day job, you stow it away and try to find the smile as you turn around to do the customary greet and handshake with the opposition’s TIC.

 _Oh great,_  you think as you get your first look.

He is one of those teachers who is also the coach. You know this because not only is he wearing an adult-sized version of the opposing team’s uniform but also a plastic face mask, the kind the kids have to wear during penalty corners. Was this meant to be funny? Or was this guy just really serious about hockey?

The masks you’ve seen are always white. You remember them well because every time the kids put them on during games you can’t help but be reminded of Jason from ‘Halloween’. You always want to crack a joke about it but then realize they’re probably too young to get it, plus they’re probably not allowed to watch it. You suppose it is kind of violent.

But this mask is black, which you guess is intended to match the black of the team’s uniform. Is this a custom job?

 _Bloody hell,_  you think to yourself.  _It is. What a douche._

But of course you don’t say that. And of course you force a smile.

“Hi,” you say, extending your hand to meet the one he’s already proffered in your direction. “Nice mask.”

His grip is firm. He pumps your arm twice. Then he does it for a third time, not quite as fast. Is he looking you up and down? With the mask on it’s hard for you to tell…

“I’m Kylo. Kylo Ren,” he says, as at last he lets your hand go. He reaches both hands up to the mask and lifts it up and over his head, tossing his hair and then staring directly at you as he drops it at his feet.

“This is my team,” he says, indicating the opposition. “The Knights of Ren.”

You raise an eyebrow. Is this guy serious?

“Okay,” you say slowly, not wanting to be rude but very close to a very unsubtle eyeroll. It’s junior high school hockey, for fuck’s sake.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,  _Kylo_ ,” you say, forcing the nicety, because as he’s been staring at you it strikes you just how nice his eyes are. “You have very nice… uniforms.”

You blink, slightly unnerved. Seriously? Did you just say that?

“Yes, we do,” he says. “Are you the coach? Do you play?”

“Hell, no,” you snort. “I barely know the rules.”

He stares at you again. Should you have been that honest?

“Uh, listen,” you say, feeling uncomfortable and also like his opinion of you probably can’t get any worse than it probably is right now and so you might as well just get this embarrassing truth out in the air as soon as possible. “I’m really sorry, but our coach hasn’t turned up and we have no goalie kit.”

“Oh,” he says. Is that a smirk on his face?

 _Prick,_  you think.

But you don’t smirk back. What you give him instead are your very best doe eyes. Without a goalie kit, you’re going to be having some very difficult conversations with some very unimpressed parents in about thirty seconds from now if he says no.

You watch him shift his weight to his other hip cockily. He’s still staring at you. His chin is raised. You get the feeling that he’s appraising you, even though you’ve just said you know nothing about hockey. You notice the shape of his nose. He’s definitely looking down it at you, and you’re suddenly aware of just how motley you must look.

“No kit?” he says. Is he stalling? He’s still staring at you.

“Yes,” you say, trying to think fast. “Could we please perhaps borrow your team's masks during the game? Just when we have to do penalty corners? I could run them back and forth from your goal. I don't mind.”

“Mr Solo!”

He whips his head around quickly, toward the sound of the girl’s voice. You notice that his whole demeanor has suddenly changed. He takes two strides to meet the kid, who is pretty small, even for a seventh-grader, and then kneels down before her. Even now, taking a knee, he is only just shorter than her.

“What’s up?” he asks. You notice that his voice is no longer arrogant but soft and gentle. And he’s smiling at her, with no trace of a smirk at all.

“I forgot my shin pads,” she says, looking on the verge of tears.

“That’s okay,” he says, forgivingly, and still smiling. “You can do a really important job for me instead today.”

He stands, deftly collecting his mask on the way. You think he seems good with his hands. Is that thought appropriate right now? There are kids around...

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he asks you, not quite meeting your gaze.

You narrow your eyes, but only slightly, sensing something.

“I’m Rey,” you say slowly. “And I’m not sure I caught yours either.”

Now he looks at you. Is he embarrassed?

“I’m Ben,” he says, softly. “Ben Solo.”

You smile.

“That suits you better,” you say.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down.

 _Yep,_  you think.  _Definitely embarrassed._

But of course you don't say anything.

He turns his attention back to the girl.  “Leia, you can’t play without safety gear but could you please be a runner for today? Our opponents will need to share our masks and so I’ll need you to run them between goals. Do you think you can do that?”

“Totally, Mr Solo,” she says brightly, smiling up at him before turning to jog off. “I can totally do that!”

He turns to face you again. He isn’t posturing as much as before. He has lowered his chin. You notice the hockey stick in his hand. Had he been holding that before? You don’t know much about hockey, but you do know your brands.

_Resistance._

“So you don’t know much about hockey, huh?” he says, as one of the umpires blows the whistle to signal the start of the final minute before start time.

You shake your head, smiling.

“Well,” he says, beginning to walk backwards, returning to his team but not wanting his gaze to leave yours just yet. “I could show you the ways of the game. And maybe you could forgive me for earlier?”

You laugh. He is smirking again, but it’s a good smirk.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,  _Mr Solo_ ,” you say. “But sure, why not. Maybe I do need a teacher.”


End file.
